


like two bitter strangers

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light BDSM, M/M, Secretary au, Self-Harm, Spanking, a sad amount of lonely wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You will bend over that piece of paper on the desk and get your nose as close to it as you are able. Palms flat in front of you.”</p><p>He’s halfway to spreading out his hands on either side of the paper before the strangeness of the order finally sinks into his brain and he glances back at Mr Hart, half in question, half in...he’s not sure what’s showing on his face anymore.</p><p>Mr Hart just stares back and crisply enunciates each word. “Bend. Over. The. Desk.”</p><p>And so Eggsy does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like two bitter strangers

**Author's Note:**

> My Reel-Kingsman fic contribution, based on the film _Secretary_. :D

Eggsy is released from the nick on a Tuesday afternoon. The sky is dull and grey, but he isn’t gonna complain: it’s the first bit of sky he’s walked beneath as a free man in 18 months.

That sky, though, becomes less enjoyable as the minutes tick by and there’s still no sign of his mum. Eggsy had written and called several times to make sure she knew when he was getting out, but it doesn’t appear to have made much difference.

The sky grows darker and the air grows colder, and eventually, one of the screws just getting off shift takes pity on him and gives him money for a bus ticket. Officer Morgan is one of the nicer ones, and Eggsy never tried to cause any trouble during his sentence.

“I’ll pay you back when I can, I promise, ma’am!” he tells her earnestly, but all she does is smile at him and wish him well.

The ride down takes a bit of wind from his sails. It’s a long, featureless drive through dour mill towns and long stretches of fallow farmland that remind him of the equally long drive going up to the prison almost two years ago. At the time, he’d been stewing with anger and anxiousness out of not knowing what was to happen. Coming out on the other end of that ordeal, Eggsy discovers little has changed.

There’s still that anger simmering beneath the surface, he knows, but the dullness and repetition of prison life taught him how to keep that flame burning on low.

There’s still that fear of not knowing what’s to come, because after 18 months, he’d gotten used to the unchanging rhythm of prison life, even took comfort in its familiar boredom.

In prison, he knew his place in a way he hadn’t as a free man. Things were simple. Now everything’s changed.

He gets into Victoria station in the late evening and has to blag enough change to take a night bus back to the estate. By the time he catches sight of home in all its concrete block glory, he feels like someone’s turned up the gravity to eleven, so heavy does weariness hang upon his bones.

His mum is the one who opens the door. “Eggsy! What are you doing here, babe?”

Eggsy can smell the booze on her, but sinks gratefully into her arms all the same when she throws them around him. “I’m out, mum,” he mumbles into her hair. “I’m free.”

 

___

 

Not only did his mum forget his release date, but Eggsy has to learn Dean’s rented out his room to one of his goons when he opens his bedroom door and gets an eyeful of Rottie, naked as a robin, cornholing some bird with bleached blond hair on his own bed.

“Get the fuck out of here, you fucking shit!” Rottie shouts at him, grabbing the nearest object at hand and hurling it in Eggsy’s direction.

Eggsy manages to dodge it, barely, and watches as his marines photograph smashes against the wall, sending glass shattering everywhere. He reels back, nearly stumbling over his own two feet in his haste to get the fuck out of there, slamming the door closed in his wake.

“Fucking hell.”

“Oh, Eggsy, I’m so sorry, luv! We didn’t know you was getting out so soon.” his mum says, wringing her hands anxiously.

“I wrote to you. Several times.”

“Well. We needed the money.”

“You didn’t even pack up my stuff!”

His mum bites her lip. “You can kip on the sofa for a bit, yeah?”

The sofa is old and the cushions are nearly flat. It’s a two-seater, not even long enough to fit Eggsy’s admittedly compact frame, spotted with suspicious looking stains and heavily pungent with fag smoke, booze, and mildew.

But worse still is how Eggsy no sooner falls into an exhausted slumber when he’s abruptly awoken by Dean slamming the front door so hard, the entire flat seems to rattle.

“So Mugsy’s returned from the nick!” Dean slurs, ambling towards him, red faced and sweaty, reeking of the pub. Eggsy tenses when he reaches out and lightly slaps his cheek. “You’re still a wanker.”

“Dean!” his mum hisses from the bedroom. “You’re gonna wake up the baby! Just come to bed, alright?”

“Fuck off, Michelle,” Dean amiably says. “Mugsy and I are gonna have a lil’ chat.”

His mum just gives him an apologetic look, but disappears back into her room, leaving Eggsy alone with him.

“Just ‘cos you’re back now don’t mean you get a free ride. Everyone here earns their keep, you get me?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Eggsy bites out, trying to keep the resentment out of his tone.

It must work a treat, because Dean just turns and staggers off for his bedroom, but not before tossing over his shoulder, “Just remember: we was better off without you.”

 

___

 

There are no two ways about it, he’s got to hustle up some money on his own or Dean will decide for him. Considering the stint he’s just finished at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Eggsy is not all that keen on learning what Dean’s got in mind.

Which means Eggsy’s got do this above board, as in, find himself a legitimate, tax-paying job. But the aforementioned stint on his record makes that all but impossible. As a teenage drop-out without a GCSE to his name, he’s not qualified for much to begin with, and the jobs he does submit his rather dodgy application to don’t even bother ringing him back. He can’t even get a job as a janitor in his old secondary school.

It’s fucking hopeless, is what it is.

His mum sees his frustration and despondency grow with each passing day—days that are not helped by the deepening dark circles beneath his eyes from barely getting any sleep amidst all the racket Dean and his gang make at all hours of the night—until one evening after another long, unsuccessful job hunt (he’s resorted to going door to door to every establishment with a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in their window, only to be told, after one scathing glance, that he won’t qualify), she sits him down and writes something out on a wrinkled napkin with a dried up tea stain on it.

“What’s this?” he asks, trying to make sense of his mum’s shaky, smudged script.

“It’s the name of the bloke who knew your father in the marines,” she tells him. “Came around when you was real young to tell us how Lee died saving his life. I was so angry at the time to think much of it, but he did say if we ever needed a favour, we can go and ring him up. I’ll always remember that number.” There’s a brief moment when the sadness surfaces to her face before she covers it back up again with a helpless shrug. “Don’t know if it still works, though.”

Eggsy’s real sceptical about it, but he hasn’t got many options left, so he rewrites the number onto a clean sheet of paper and has a go.

Turns out, his mum’s suspicions are proven right. All he gets is a customer complaints hotline. Eggsy hangs up before the pleasantly bland female voice on the other end manages to finish asking, “How may we direct your call?”

 

___

 

Fortunately, with a bit of internet sleuthing at the library, Eggsy manages to track down one Harold A. Hart, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps and Special Forces, now apparently the owner of the Kingsman tailor shop on Savile Row. How one goes from being a doctor to Special Forces to a tailor, Eggsy hasn’t a clue.

The neighbourhood is intimidating enough with its clean streets and well-kept facades. From the disdainful looks he gets from passer-bys and his own instincts telling him he doesn’t belong here, Eggsy knows he sticks out like a sore thumb no matter how hard he’s tried to make himself halfway presentable.

The exterior of Kingsman is posh as it gets, all polished wood, brass fixtures, and erudite typeface. The suit displays in the window probably cost more than what Eggsy could make in a year (which, admittedly, isn’t all that difficult given his current income stands at exactly zero).

He can’t lie and say he’s not intimidated, that he doesn’t think about turning heel and fleeing like a coward with each step he forces himself to make up the stairs, when his hand is on the door, and when he finally pushes it open, triggering an honest-to-god little brass bell. There’s no turning back now.

The interior of the shop looks about how he’s imagined it: ornate and traditional in decor with real wooden furniture and shelves and rich green wallpaper. The shop is surprisingly small in footprint, but well laid out and pristine. It’s completely empty save for a pretty woman about his age wearing a dove grey tailored who’s looking up at him from where she’s been neatly stacking bolts of fabric.

“Hello,” she says with a pleasant expression that doesn’t hold an ounce of scorn. “My name is Roxanne. May I help you?”

“Er,” Eggsy responds intelligently, “is Mr Hart in?”

Roxanne tilts her head just so at the question. “May I ask what this is in regards to?”

Eggsy swallows in hesitation, not wanting to flat out admit he’s come to beg for a job. “Can you tell him Eggs—sorry, Gary—Unwin is here to see him? He knew my dad.”

He catches the way Roxanne’s mouth parts slightly, as if she wants to ask a dozen more questions, before she catches herself and presses her lips together. “Let me go and see. Please wait here.”

“Yeah, of course. Cheers.”

Roxanne disappears up the small flight of stairs in the back to parts unseen and unknown, probably where all the sewing and measuring and cutting—all the real work—happens. The moment she’s out of sight, Eggsy feels even more out of place. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to look like he’s deeply interested in the handkerchiefs on the nearest shelf, hoping no one passing by will think he’s here to rob the place.

He’s just starting to wonder why something that’s only used to wipe up one’s snot comes in so many patterns and fabrics when he hears Roxanne’s lightly clicking heels echo on the stairs once more.

“He’ll see you now, Mr Unwin, if you’ll just follow me.”

“Eggsy’s fine.” _Mr_ _Unwin_ reminds him too much of his teachers scolding him.

“Eggy?” 

“No, Egg _sy_.”

Now is usually the point when someone asks about his unusual nickname, and not with a little condescension, but Roxanne just gives him a small smile. “Call me Roxy, then.”

Eggsy already likes her a lot.

Roxy leads him up the stairs which reveals a long, narrow hall lined with cases containing, strangely, butterflies, moths, and beetles on the walls and several doors that are closed and ominous. It’s pretty fucking creepy, actually, but Roxy seems inured to her surroundings, not so much as batting an eye.

In fact, they don’t stop until they’ve reached the last door at the end before Roxy turns to him and says, “This is Mr Hart’s office. It was nice to meet you, Eggsy.”

Eggsy’s too nervous to do much more than nod at her. It’s probably rude, but she seems to understand all the same, leaving him alone to face the closed door and the man behind it. He takes a deep breath, bunches his hand into a fist, and knocks three times before he can let himself think too much more.

No one answers.

He gives it another good five seconds before trying again, wondering if there’s anyone actually in there at all (maybe Roxy’s just playing an elaborate prank on him, maybe Mr Hart fled out the window), before summoning his courage (what others have called recklessness) and opening the door.

The office looks more like a library and is just as richly appointed as the store’s floor with wooden shelves filled top to tail with hard-covered books, a large area rug, and a gigantic wooden desk that is, remarkably, free of any knick-knacks or papers: just three silver pens neatly lined up in the centre.

It takes Eggsy a moment to spot Mr Hart standing at the window, back turned, which gives him a moment to study the man unnoticed. He’s tall, Mr Hart is, with the gracefulness of limb that tends to move in a way that makes Eggsy think of a swaying treetop, inherently sophisticated and steadfast. It helps that Mr Hart wears an excellently tailored suit as befitting his business, dark navy with a thin pinstripe, that elongates the lines of his body and accentuates all the right angles at his shoulders, his waist, his legs. The back of his head is dark, with a smattering of grey, and neatly styled. His broad shoulders are slumped, though, as if weighed down by some world weariness that Eggsy can’t see.

“Uh, Mr Hart?”

All at once, tension bleeds back into Mr Hart’s frame. Eggsy watches his spine straighten into something almost brittle. It makes Eggsy stand up straighter in reaction, fight or flight response setting in. Before he can decide on a course of action, though, Mr Hart pivots sharply on his heel and regards Eggsy with a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and something else he can’t put name to.

Mr Hart’s somewhere in his forties, possibly early fifties, with lightly carved lines in his face. He wears black thick-rimmed glasses of the sort that flit in and out of fashion through the decades, but look right at home on his face. His features hold the sort of neutral, inoffencive pleasantness that should otherwise be unremarkable, but the way he stares at Eggsy, pinning him to the spot with a dark, intense gaze, sends a hot flush through his body.

“I’m Gary Unwin. Roxy said you’d see me,” Eggsy mumbles around a tongue that now feels like it’s too big for his mouth.

“Yes, I’m aware of who you are,” Mr Hart says in a surprisingly smooth, silken voice that makes Eggsy want to shiver. “Lee Unwin’s son. I met you once before when you were just a boy. Not under the best of circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“So I’ve been told by my mum,” Eggsy says.

The corner of Mr Hart’s mouth twitches like he’s trying to suppress a grimace, and Eggsy belatedly recalls that his mum had said she’d been angry at Mr Hart. He’s seen his mum’s wrath, as rare as it makes an appearance, and he can’t blame Mr Hart one bit. But all Mr Hart says is, “Please have a seat. Would you care for something to drink?”

And it’s only then that Eggsy realises Mr Hart is nursing a drink of his own, scotch from the looks of it. Eggsy refrains from raising his brow as he sits down in one of the upholstered chairs before the desk. “Nah, I’m fine, thanks.”

“So what is it you wanted to see me about, Mr Unwin?”

“Well, uh,” Eggsy says, taking another breath before opening his mouth and then closing it again. There’s really no way to make any of this pretty. “I’ve just gotten out of prison.”

Mr Hart blinks. “Ah.”

“Not for anything bad!” Eggsy rushes to add. “Er. I mean, obviously a little bit bad since I got sent down for it. But, I mean. Not for like...murder or anything like that. Just nicked a car from one of my step-dad’s lot. And he deserved it.”

“I see,” Mr Hart says in a tone that indicates he doesn’t.

“But what I’m trying to say is that...that’s all behind me now. I’ve done my time. Learned my lesson. Don’t wanna cause no more trouble,” Eggsy says, feeling his face grow hot. “I just want to live my life in peace. But I need a job.”

Mr Hart doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him expectantly, and Eggsy realises he hasn’t actually stated what he wants yet.

“Obviously I can’t be a tailor. I mean, that’s...yeah. But I can...move things. Fold. Clean. Even toilets if I have to. I’ll do anything, really. I just need to….” he rambles, resisting the urge to cringe beneath Mr Hart’s unwavering gaze. “I just need a job. And no one will hire me. Mum said you owed us a favour?”

He doesn’t mean for that last to come out as a question, but it seems insulting, insinuating that his dad’s life is worth so little.

The ensuing silence goes on for a long, long time, in which Mr Hart does not take his eyes off him. Eggsy starts to fidget, feeling like every bit of him’s being thoroughly scrutinised. He can't tell what Mr Hart’s thinking, the man’s face gives nothing away.

As the seconds continue to tick by, Eggsy feels his stomach drop. This has been a huge mistake. He’s obviously pissed off the man and humiliated himself enough for several lifetimes as it is. He’s about to get up and bolt, not even caring whether it’s polite or not, but Mr Hart’s voice stops him.

“We do already employ an overnight custodial staff to clean the shop and offices,” he says while peeling the glasses from his face and plucking the folded up handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit to start cleaning them. “However, our staff spends quite a bit of time during the day on the shop floor, re-organising shelves rifled through by customers, making sure the fitting rooms are clean, sweeping up scraps of fabric and pins and the like. It might be useful to have a shop boy of sorts. The staff would certainly appreciate it.”

“I can do all those things.”

“It’s necessary but tedious work. The staff loathes doing it, but we need to constantly present an impeccable face to our customers. I’m only afraid you’ll be rather bored.”

“I wanna be bored,” Eggsy insists, which admittedly sounded better in his head, but when he says it, he realises it’s true. He’d take calm monotony over Dean’s random bursts of violence any day. Besides, what Mr Hart described sounds a lot like what he’d done in prison, where he’d been put on laundry duty. He could sort and fold with the best of them, day in and day out among the humid industrial machines. It had been considered one of the worst jobs to have, second only to a janitorial assignment, but in it Eggsy had found a reliable source of peace. Boring sounds like just what he needs. It sounds nice. “Please, I’d just like the chance.”

He hates the way he knows he’s giving Mr Hart a pleading look, but the carrot’s been dangled before him. For the first time in a long while, Eggsy feels the desperate hope of being able to grasp at something better.

“Alright,” Mr Hart finally says. “We can do a trial run and see how it goes. Can you be here tomorrow morning at eight a.m.?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” Eggsy would camp out all night if he had to. He can’t help giving Mr Hart a big smile, he’s so happy. “I won’t let you down, Mr Hart. I promise.”

 

___

 

Mr Hart isn’t wrong. Eggsy can see how the higher level staff would find it endlessly tedious, straightening and sorting out things, only to have some posh twit follow you, undoing all that hard work in your wake, sometimes on purpose, but Eggsy doesn’t mind. There had been another bloke in prison who practised Buddhism. He taught Eggsy how to meditate, even though Eggsy had barely got the hang of it by the time he’d been released. He also told Eggsy about how Tibetan monks spent weeks to painstakingly create elaborately intricate sand mandalas only to destroy them once they were finished in order to symbolise the transitory nature of life.

(He’d read up on that last bit himself, because when he’d asked the bloke why they did that, the answer he’d been given had been, “Dunno. Maybe they only got so much sand so they’ve got to keep reusing it.”)

Every time someone messes up a drawer of ties or scatters the bolts of fabric about and doesn’t restack them, it just gives Eggsy another purpose in being here.

The staff do appreciate his presence, and Eggsy finds them to be surprisingly decent for posh folk. There are three other tailors in addition to Mr Hart himself: Roxy, James, and Percival. There’s Merlin, the tall, bald, vaguely scary Scotsman who maintains the shop’s online presence (because even Kingsman has to resign itself to the Digital Age), seems to be the go-to person for all IT and accounting matters, and who visibly sighs when he tells him, “Yes, Eggsy it is my legal name and if I hear another pun out of you, I’ll set you up with a prominent social media presence as One Direction’s Number One fanboy.”

But as nice as the rest of the staff are, Kingsman’s customers tend live down to every expectation he’s got and then some. They eye him with him suspicion by default, sneer at even the nicest clothes he could afford from the thrift shop from money his mum lent him, and make snide remarks within earshot if they don’t ignore him entirely. The best treatment he gets is when they regard him as a dimwitted charity case and indulge him with servile tasks like fetching them the materials to make a cup of tea, because they either don’t think he could properly make it himself or don’t want him tainting anything that goes near their mealy mouths.

Every incident makes him grit his teeth and threatens to fan that low burning flame of anger inside him into something greater, but so far, he’s managed to pull himself back from the edge. He reminds himself that he needs this job, this boredom, this life. He doesn’t want to fall back into his old ways, giving in to that anger that drives him to do reckless, self-destructive things like repeatedly punching a wall until he’s bloodied his fists or accidentally overdosing and getting his arse dragged to A&E by his mates or, by latest example, stealing a car, driving it backwards through the streets of London and intentionally crashing it into a jam sandwich to keep his mates from being dragged down by his own stupid decisions.

 

___

 

Home is different though. It exists in a whole other world outside of his job.

Home is where Dean and his mum get into screaming fits that make the baby cry and usually end with Dean storming off to the pub and his mum sporting a new bruise on her face.

Eggsy finally gets his old room back. It’s good because the four walls of this tiny little space give him the same sense of security as his old cell but it’s bad because he still hears every smack and cry of pain through the thin walls and he can’t do anything about it. It makes his blood boil until all he wants to do is just rush out there and wail into Dean even if Eggsy will just get the shit beat out of him and his mum will be mad at him for daring to hurt the man who keeps hurting her.

So Eggsy just grabs a handful of the glass that still litters the floor of his room by the door and squeezes it into his fist. He relishes the sharp bite of the shards piercing his skin, and feels purified when the blood starts dripping between his fingers, like he’s leeching away all the rage in his body, leaving him as an empty vessel who can go back to being able to handle the world.

 

___

 

Eggsy isn’t actually all that bored, even on the slow days. He’s intrigued by the rituals toffs subject themselves to in order to be adorned with finery. He’s entranced by Roxy’s nimble fingers at work, adjusting little details he’d never noticed or the way Percival can draw and cut a perfectly straight line without need of a guide. He’s in wonder at the way James can put together two or more seemingly incongruous patterns and fabrics and make it work in oddly novel and bold ways.

But mostly, he’s consumed by thoughts of Mr Hart himself, who he glimpses only rarely and usually only when the man in question is heading off-site to see to some VIP customer or just coming back and wanting nothing more than to retreat to his office. Mr Hart continues to remain a mystery to him. The others don’t talk about him much, and when they do, it’s accompanied by sly looks and knowing smirks that Eggsy doesn’t understand.

He fantasises about how Mr Hart looks with his suit jacket off. Does he have braces? Would a waistcoat hug his slender torso, cut just at the small of his back to highlight his very fine arse? How often does he have to get on his knees when he’s with a customer for a fitting, to adjust something or another he’s otherwise too tall for. Those thoughts lead Eggsy to imagining _he’s_ the customer Mr Hart is trying to clothe, Mr Hart running his hands all over his body under the guise of make sure his suit fits well. Mr Hart noticing the line of his trousers isn’t so straight anymore and then looking up to meet Eggsy’s flushed face.

“At Kingsman,” Mr Hart would say in that rich honeyed voice, “We don’t let anything get between you and the maximum impact of a well-made suit.” And then he’d take care of Eggsy’s problem personally, right there in Dressing Room One, because Kingsman is all about high touch service.

“Are you alright?” Roxy asks him, abruptly yanking him out of his fantasy. “You seem rather flushed. Do you need to go home? I can let Mr Hart know.”

“I’m fine. Been breathing in this polish all day. Fumes must be getting to me,” he mutters, quickly moving away with the rag to polish some other already gleaming portion of the store.

 

___

 

One day, Eggsy is taken off-guard by a summons to Mr Hart’s office, and so he makes his way up the stairs and down that long, strange hall of curiosities.

“You seem to be settling in well, Mr Unwin. The staff sing your praises,” Mr Hart notes, twisting his glass of scotch between his long, elegant fingers as he regards Eggsy sitting across from him. “But I’d like to hear from you personally as to how you’re doing.”

“Yeah, good,” Eggsy says, nodding vigourously before he internally yells at himself to stop being such a twat. “Everyone here’s been nice. Work’s what it is, but it’s not bad. Thank you for giving me the chance, sir.”

Something in Mr Hart’s eyes lights up, but it goes away too quickly before Eggsy can pinpoint it, and instead his gaze slides down to his hand. “Your injury is not giving you too much trouble? I know much of your work is manual labour.”

Eggsy glances at his thickly bandaged hand and wills himself not to blush in shame. He flexes his stiff fingers, feels the twinge of ache radiate out from the centre of his palm, and uses it as an anchor. “It’s alright. Not like I’m doing real delicate work or anything.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“I dropped a glass and cut myself when trying to pick up the pieces.” Eggsy waves his hand. Coincidentally, it’s the injured one. “It was really stupid.”

“I do hope you’ll be more careful,” Mr Hart tells him, seeming to buy his story well enough. Eggsy begins to relax. “Did you earn that bruise on your cheek by walking into a door perhaps?”

Eggsy freezes, guiltily lifting a hand to his cheek before he can think better of it. He could have sworn he’d covered it up well.

“Don’t worry, it’s only just starting to show through. There’s foundation on your bandage, however,” Mr Hart explains, nodding to the beige-coloured stain on the gauze along the back of his hand where Eggsy must have subconsciously pressed it into his cheek.

“I…” Eggsy starts to say but finds he has no more words, nothing to explain this. Mr Hart is looking at him like he already knows.

“Mr Unwin, if you are in danger, know that you can talk to me. I will listen. And should you want further help, know that I would offer you that as well.”

“Call me Eggsy,” Eggsy says numbly. “Never liked being called anything else.”

“Eggsy,” Mr Hart says, and Eggsy discovers he likes the way Mr Hart says it, like it’s something to be cherished.

“I’m fine, Mr Hart. Really. Just clumsy.”

Mr Hart sits back. Eggsy hadn’t realised he had been leaning forward, that there had been a sort of closeness there until it was retracted. He gets the sense that Mr Hart is disappointed and it crushes something up inside himself, like he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Well,” Mr Hart says, “I’ve taken up too much of your time, I think. I’ll let you get back to work, Eggsy.” It’s a clear dismissal.

Eggsy stands up, but can’t make himself move towards the door. Mr Hart looks up at him expectantly and Eggsy realises he’s got to say something, just standing here like this. “I...appreciate your concern. Really. No one seems to have it anymore. It’s nice.”

Mr Hart blinks, startled, but then his gaze softens. “The offer I made earlier will always be open to you, Eggsy. Just remember that.”

“Okay,” Eggsy says, finally able to leave now that something feels more resolved.

Mr Hart is actually concerned for him. He _cares_. Even though he knows he should feel humiliated by the thought of Mr Hart knowing _that_ about him, Eggsy doesn’t give his wounds any further attention for the rest of the afternoon. He goes home that night feeling lighter than air.

 

___

 

On a slow afternoon when the shop is empty, Roxy sidles up to him while he’s trying to sort out tie clips. “Eggs,” she says after a few moments of watching him try and figure out what the previous configuration was supposed to be. “Could you do me a favour?”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Eggsy asks with a frown. He knows there are supposed to be variations but they all honestly look the same to him.

“I need you to be my date tonight.”

Eggsy drops the clip he’s been holding, only idly noting the clatter as it rolls under a shelf. “What?”

“My parents are having a dinner and they want me to bring my boyfriend,” Roxy says.

If anything, Eggsy’s even more confused. “But I’m...not?”

“Obviously,” Roxy says, neatly rolling her eyes. “But they believe I have one and now they want to meet him.”

“Why do your parents think you’ve got a boyfriend when you don’t?”

“Because I might have told them I did?” It’s the first time Eggsy has seen Roxy look anything less than cool and poised as she leans in closer and lowers her voice. She’s nervous, he realises. “I’m...I don’t like boys, Eggs. Not like that.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says, a bit dumbfounded and, in all honesty, a bit relieved. “That’s okay, Rox. I ain’t one to judge.”

Roxy rewards him with a sweet smile, and Eggsy can’t help but reach out and hold her hand with his good one, squeezing it reassuringly. She squeezes back.“My parents don’t know. In fact, no one in our circles does. It was easier to keep it a secret when I was younger. They were actually proud I was so dedicated to my studies. But now I’m well into a career I enjoy and they’re starting to ask questions. The thing is...I’ve been seeing someone for awhile now. Amelia. It’s serious. I think...I think my parents could see how happy I was because they finally just outright asked it there was a boy in my life. I suppose I panicked. I told them yes.”

“Why don’t you just...tell them the truth?”

“I can’t!” Roxy practically hisses. “My parents love me but...but they’re very traditional in some respects. They want me to get married and give them grandbabies. They don’t want to find out their only child is gay. It would break their hearts.”

“So you wanna lie to them? For how long? Eventually they’re gonna to figure it out.”

“That’s a worry for another time,” Roxy brushes off. “Right now, I’ve only got to get through tonight. So will you help me?”

“Won’t they be just as displeased to see their only child dating a chav?”

“They don’t really care about things like that. We’re considered new money ourselves, you know. My parents respect anyone who’s willing to work hard and make their own way. And you must have really impressed Mr Hart to have simply come in one day and leave with a job after five minutes. He hasn’t hired anyone new since...well, me.” Roxy shrugs helplessly. “They’ll love you.”

The information about Mr Hart is interesting, but only because Eggsy now knows Mr Hart hasn’t told anyone about his circumstances. It’s kind of him, but now it feels like a deception. It isn’t really Eggsy who impressed Mr Hart so much as his father. He’s just cashing in on it. “Alright,” he sighs, already feeling guilty for leading Roxy to some pretty false conclusions. “But you can’t blame me if and when I fuck it up. I’m not like you, new money or not. I won’t know which fork to use or whatever.”

“You’re the best, Eggs,” Roxy says, giving Eggsy a quick but bone-crushing hug. “Now let’s make sure we’ve got our stories straight.”

“So to speak,” he cheekily grin.

This time, Roxy gives him a withering look. “I take back everything good I’ve said about you. I refuse to fake-date a man who holds such an inordinate fondness for puns.”

 

___

 

Roxy’s right though: her parents all but try and write him into their will within the first hour of Eggsy showing up at their door. To his surprise, he finds himself liking them too. Their house is upscale, but not some grand palatial estate he’d been fearing. They exude warmth and genuine love, even if Eggsy half wonders if Roxy’s a bit smothered by it.

“We’re just so relieved our dear Roxy is finally achieving as much success in her personal life as she’s done in her professional one,” Mrs Morton tells him, giving a mortified Roxy a big oblivious smile that’s been loosened just a little bit more by the wine.

“For a moment there, we thought she might’ve been a...well, you know,” Mr Morton stage whispers. “ _Confirmed spinster_ , as it were.”

“Would it be so bad if she was?” Eggsy asks, wincing when Roxy delivers a sharp kick to his ankle beneath the table.

“Oh! No, of course not, I mean….” Mrs Morton laughs uncomfortably. “We just want our girl to be happy, and to lead a healthy, normal life.”

“She does the family proud,” Mr Morton adds fondly.

Eggsy can see out of the corner of his eye how tense Roxy is and he finally understands why she’s been keeping her secrets for so long.

“And who knows?” Mrs Morton continues, eyeing the both of them, her smile turning suggestive. “Perhaps there will be church bells in the near future?”

“Perhaps,” Roxy concurs weakly before draining her glass in four consecutive swallows.

 

___

 

“You were wonderful tonight. They adore you, and so do I. Thank you,” Roxy later says to him as they leave, arm in arm, their cheeks warmed from the wine. Instead of heading directly home, they’ve opted to take a brief stroll down the little cobblestone path that winds through Roxy’s parents’ much talked up gardens, which are indeed very pretty.

“I think I get it,” Eggsy says. “Why you keep up the charade. They’re nice, and they love you, obviously, but….”

Roxy just nods solemnly. “Perhaps one day I’ll come clean, but right now….”

“It’s okay,” he assures her once more. “We did good tonight, you and I.”

“We did, didn’t we? I owe you so much for this, Eggs.”

“Nah. It’s what mates do for each other, innit?”

“Not all of them have. Not always,” Roxy says bittersweetly before giving him a goodnight kiss on his cheek, lips touching just over the mostly faded bruise he still covers with his mum’s makeup.

 

___

 

It swiftly becomes apparent to Eggsy when he wakes up that today won't be a good day.

It starts off badly when Dean barges into his room, demanding his money and delivering a few wake-up wallops that land in already tender places. Daisy’s cold makes her cranky, ripping any hopes for a calm morning to tatters with her inconsolable wailing.

He just misses the bus because he has to spend a few more moments covering up the dark smudge around his eye, and his late arrival is made worse by the fact that the shop is unusually busy with people for the time of day. It shows: the neat and orderly offerings of Kingsman are in complete shambles by careless customer browsing during the scant hour the shop has actually been open. Scraps of fabric litter the floor only to be trod upon.

The tailors, even Roxy, who is usually as cool as a cucumber, look harried and don’t exactly appreciate Eggsy’s tardiness.

“Mr Hart may be able to get away with his so-called fashionable lateness, but don’t presume it will be tolerated from you, Unwin,” Percival says while struggling beneath several bolts of fabric that Eggsy hastily relieves him of. “See to Mr King in Dressing Room Two. He wants ties for his new suit, so you need to fetch them for him. Lord knows he’ll enjoy that.”

Eggsy knocks tentatively on the door to Dressing Room Two and when he doesn’t receive an answer, he simply opens it, which is his first mistake.

“Don’t you know how rude it is to open a door without waiting for permission?” snarls Mr King, an older man who is, thankfully, fully dressed in a beautiful bespoke suit and an ugly sneer on his face that makes him look like an angry mongoose.

“Sorry, Mr King,” Eggsy says, frozen halfway in and out of the room, though his first instinct is to back out. “I was told you be wanting some ties?”

If anything, Mr King’s expression transforms from irritation to scorn. “First they hire a woman to handle men’s clothing and now your ilk. I didn’t know Harry was so hard up that Kingsman would take anyone off the street these days.”

Eggsy swallows back the thunder stroke of rage and embarrassment that lashes out in his gut, spreading heat and anger across his cheeks, making his heart beat fiercer. It takes a moment for him to respond as civilly as he can. “Roxy—er, Ms Morton is a very fine tailor, sir. All her customers have nothing but good things to say. She’s often personally requested.”

Mr King narrows his eyes and scoffs, but doesn’t protest it. It’s enough of a reprieve for Eggsy to find his bearings when Mr King says, “Well, are you going to stand there all day, you daft boy? You know what you’re here for, so do it!”

He barely keeps from slamming the door closed, leaning his forehead against it and taking several deep breaths. Mr King is the worst sort of customer there is: entitled, prejudiced, and just plain mean. Nevertheless, he’s got to smile and play nice, no matter how many insults the posh prick spits in his face, and so Eggsy moves over to the drawers that contain Kingsman’s offerings of ties.

It’s then he realises he was so busy trying to keep himself from knocking out a few of Mr King’s teeth that he hasn’t got a clue as to what Mr King was wearing, neither the style or the colour, no matter how hard he tries to recall it. With a frustrated sigh, he grabs three ties at random in varying shades and patterns, figuring there’s got to at least be one that works. It’s not like any of them are bad.

This time when Eggsy knocks on the door, he waits for the disgruntled reply before carefully opening it, holding out the tie selection before him like he doesn’t think he’s going to get his hand back.

Mr King’s face goes from pasty to red. “Are you blind as well as thick? What sort of bloody choices are these?”

Eggsy flinches, looking down at the ties, set in a shades of dark blue, deep green, and a pale pink with black stripes, then to Mr King’s slate tweed with a thin pink plaid print. None seem particularly awful together. He shrugs helplessly. “I...if you could just tell me some colours you’d be interested in then….”

“You’re the one employed by a tailor’s shop, shouldn’t you be telling me?” Mr King’s spittle lands on his cheek, and Eggsy resists the urge to wipe it away. “Get out of my face and get me someone who knows what they’re doing. You’re completely useless.”

The silk is crushed in his hand as Eggsy turns around and stomps off, throwing the ties on the table as he moves past it, not stopping until he’s retreated up the stairs and turned the corner into the hallway where he can take a moment to simply breathe. He struggles for calm as he focuses on a butterfly case, intently studying the patterns of blues and yellows on their static wings, but their wild beauty, pinned to a board and entrapped in class, fucking _ridiculous_ , just serves to make him angrier. Fuck posh people with their freakish tastes and their high and mighty attitudes and their concern for silly things that didn’t even fucking matter. Fuck them all.

Before he realises what he’s done, his fist has impacted with the wall and dented it. His knuckles are bloody, and at first it doesn’t even hurt, but then a sharp searing pain explodes from his hand when he moves his fingers, washing away the red hot wave of fury that had clouded his mind.

Mr King’s right. He’s sick, he knows. There’s something terribly wrong with him when only pain can clear his head. That sinking thought causes his next exhale to emerge as a shuddering sob as his vision blurs.

“Eggsy.”

Eggsy startles, whirling around to come face to face with Mr Hart.

He’s so fucked in the head, his first reaction is to simply not have one at all, pretending he hasn’t caused damage to his hand or, more crucially, to property, that there aren’t hot tears streaming down his red cheeks and that he isn’t clenching his jaw to stifle more noises. That his voice isn’t shaky when he finally gets himself back under some semblance of control and says, “Hello, Mr Hart. Is there something you needed?”

Mr Hart gives him one of his, Eggsy is learning by now, long, inscrutable looks that drinks him in and holds him captive and vulnerable. “Come with me.”

He’s helpless to follow, silently trailing after Mr Hart down the long hallway like he’s been enchanted by a pied piper’s tune in rhythm to the beat of his furiously pounding heart.

He follows Mr Hart back into his office, and Mr Hart shuts and locks the door behind him. It should set off alarm bells in his head, but instead Eggsy just feels safe. No one can intrude. It’s now just them.

He feels a large, long fingered hand curl over the back of his neck, gripping him with enough strength to send shivers down his spine.

“Go by the chair behind my desk and kneel, Eggsy,” Mr Hart says.

It should, by all rights, be an unimaginable request, but Eggsy’s feet have moved without his permission, circling that massive desk and stopping beside Mr Hart’s cushioned office chair. His knees sink down and are touching the Persian rug before he can blink, like he’s in some sort of dream. He finds himself at eye level with the arm rest, inhaling the rich scent of leather and light cologne that Mr Hart must wear.

He can only see Mr Hart’s long legs enter his vision as he takes his seat in the chair. A finger tips his chin up, forcing Eggsy to look into Mr Hart’s darkened eyes. Mr Hart’s hand cups the side of his face, smoothing a thumb over the concealer around his eye to smear some of it away, leaving a sweet twinge in its wake.

“That’s recent, is it not?” Mr Hart quietly inquires.

“This morning.”

“I hate to see new marks on your skin that haven’t been….” but Mr Hart seems to catch himself and abruptly presses his lips together into a frown. Eggsy wants to ask him what he meant to say, but Mr Hart just reaches forward to retrieve his glass of scotch from where it had been sitting on top of his desk. It’s mostly drained, leaving only a wet clump of ice behind, which Mr Hart scoops out and wraps in his handkerchief before taking Eggsy’s injured hand and gently sitting it over his bruised knuckles.

He still hisses at the sting of it, but the ice starts to cool the heat emanating from his skin and numbs his hand down to the aching bone. Idly, Eggsy wonders just how much Mr Hart actually drinks.

The question is blurted out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Will you tell me about my father?”

To his surprise, Mr Hart does.

His father had been under Mr Hart’s command in the Special Forces, along with, to Eggsy’s further amazement, Merlin and James. Most of their work is still classified, but Mr Hart speaks fondly of how kind and courageous Lee Unwin had been, even in the face of the many taunts and insults he received because of his upbringing. How Lee had simply let those things slide off his back, how gentle he was in word and demeanour, and yet so dauntingly talented a soldier and marksman. The cadence of Mr Hart’s voice, smooth and without break, lulls him into a trance, the words sinking into his mind and dissipating into more pieces of the puzzle that had always represented his father.

“But what he was most proud of was you, Eggsy. He never stopped talking about you or your mother, and how much he looked forward to coming home.” There’s a faraway look in Mr Hart’s eyes, and Eggsy can tell he is no longer dwelling in the present. “When I say your father saved my life, I mean that literally. James and Merlin owe him their lives as well. He threw himself on a grenade an insurgent had been wearing. I had missed it, and my mistake would have cost the lives of every man in that room were it not for your father. He was the bravest man I knew, and in spite of what you think of your past, Eggsy, he would be so proud of your resilience and determination in wanting to get your life back on track.”

Eggsy doesn’t know what to say to that, because there had always been a voice in the back of his mind telling him just how disappointed his father would have been, and certainly Lee would have with so many of the choices Eggsy had made already, but to hear Mr Hart tell him differently now—someone who had known his father better than Eggsy ever would—leaves him stunned.

“Eggsy,” Mr Hart says in such a softly commanding tone that Eggsy is pulled from his stupification and looks up at him immediately. “This is why you will never intentionally hurt yourself again, do you understand me? You are beyond all of that now.”

It seems so wonderfully simple when Mr Hart says it, like his word has lifted a burden off his shoulders that he didn’t even known he had, and he finds himself saying, “Yes, I understand.”

“Say it.”

“I won’t hurt myself.”

“Ever again.”

“Ever again,” he dutifully repeats, feeling a lightheaded sense of accomplishment when Mr Hart’s gaze softens and a small smile curls at the corners of a mouth he wants to kiss.

 

___

 

When he’s certain it’s late enough—Dean’s passed out in bed, his mum exhaustedly slumbering beside him, Daisy caught up in her own little nebulous dream world that’s probably not as bright nor colourful as other babies’ but has got to be a hell of a lot better than her reality—Eggsy shifts his pants down past his hips beneath the sheets and circles his soft cock with his uninjured hand, the one that bears fresh, newly healed pink scars on his palm.

He just ghosts his palm up and down its length for a few moments, shivering deliciously at the sensation of his callused palm lightly tickling his sensitive skin. He closes his eyes and erases the image of his stained and cracked bedroom ceiling with one of Mr Hart and his warm brown eyes.

He’s kneeling before him naked, but Mr Hart just wordlessly draws Eggsy up and into his fully clothed lap. Eggsy can feel his hard cock through the thin fabric of his trousers, jutting into his perineum and making Eggsy press down against it, shifting his hips in little circles and relishing the small tendrils of dull pleasure that shoot deep inside him.

Mr Hart’s lips are parted, and heavy breaths fall from them like he’s running a race. His hand falls to Eggsy’s cock and his fingers close around it, giving it a few firm strokes that cause Eggsy to moan and thrust his hips up, caught between Mr Hart’s firm grip and its sharp shocks of pleasure and the blunt head of Mr Hart’s cock rubbing relentlessly behind his bollocks. His hole aches with emptiness. He thinks, just a few more inches further back, and Mr Hart’s cock could slide up into him, letting Eggsy ride it until he can’t walk straight.

Eggsy’s hand speeds up beneath the sheets, using the precome that oozes from the head to slick his length. Heat pools in his groin. His bollocks tighten and draw up. He’s so close, but he needs something more, just a little more, to put him over the edge.

 _I should be the only one who gets to mark you_ , Mr Hart whispers against his sweaty neck. _Eggsy. Say it._

“You should,” he agrees breathlessly. “Touch me.”

_Mark me._

_Make me yours._

_“Mr Hart,”_ Eggsy chokes out a cry as he comes all over his fingers and stomach, imagines he’s staining Mr Hart’s pristine suit instead of his dingy sheets, his hand gripping Eggsy’s hip hard enough to leave a fan of finger-shaped bruises on his skin that will last for days.

 

___

 

It takes a long time for Eggsy to nail down a time to see Ryan and Jamal. All three of them have suddenly found themselves with busy schedules, a far cry from their earlier years of restless aimlessness. Eggsy suspects Ryan and Jamal were trying to avoid him, but he isn’t too cut up about it. They feel guilty, the prison psychologist, Dr Abbott, would have remarked. Seeing Eggsy reminds them that they left their mate to take the fall, even though it was Eggsy who refused to grass them up first, and had they stepped forward at that point, then all three of them would have been sent down for the maximum sentence, garnering a permanent mark on their records.

As Eggsy sees it, it was only fair. After all, It had been him who encouraged them to join him in his illicit adventure. They shouldn’t have had to pay because he’s a self-destructive fuckup.

It’s all water under the bridge now, because here they are at the Black Prince once again, and while it’s a bit awkward at first, a few pints can do wonders to ease the tension. Soon, they find the rhythm of their old camaraderie.

“Cor, I can’t believe you’re gonna be a father,” Eggsy says to Ryan, who looks both proud and vaguely ill at the prospect.

“Yeah, I mean. It weren’t planned, obviously, but Alicia wants to keep it and Tom’s letting me go full time so I can support them. I’m kinda excited, yeah? A lil me running about.”

“Stuff of nightmares,” Jamal says, and both he and Eggsy have a laugh.

“Fuck you, mate,” Ryan shoots back cheerfully, grinning. “Not all of us gonna go to university. Gotta leave a legacy behind somehow.”

“University?” Eggsy asks, turning to Jamal in surprise.

“Yeah, I….” Jamal starts before clearing his throat in embarrassment, unable to look up from his half-empty glass that he rotates on his beer mat. “I got a few A-levels. Turns out it’s enough to get me into Bristol next term.”

“Holy fuck,” Eggsy says, absolutely gobsmacked before clapping Jamal on the back. “Well done, mate. Good on you.”’

“Our Jamal’s moving up in the world.” Ryan pretends to dab at his eyes with a napkin. “Soon he’ll be too good to hang out with the likes of us. Gonna get him some proper learned mates he gonna talk Shakespeare with.”

“Oh shut it,” Jamal says. “Gonna study computers anyway. It’s where the all the money’s at. Thinking about a bunch of dead blokes while living off Daddy’s trust fund ain’t something we all aspire to do.”

“Says you,” Ryan shoots back, and then they’re off on another increasingly ridiculous argument that somehow turns into a game of _would you rather…?_

Eggsy sits back and lets their discussion wash over him. He’s honestly happy for Jamal, he is. Ryan too. They’ve both built real lives for themselves somehow, far beyond anything Eggsy would have, in truth, expected from them.

It’s just that he’s also a bit melancholy for how different his own trajectory has gone. Is going. Not that it’s bad, not now. He likes his job for the most part. He really likes his boss. Perhaps too much. It’s just that he can see how his friends are already starting to move further and further away from him, heading towards some distant horizon where Eggsy can’t follow, whether it’s to stay within one’s class and make the most of it or to defy it and break free.

Eggsy feels like he’s been encased in amber, at a standstill while he peers out and watches the rest of life, and his friends, pass him by. He doesn’t know how to start moving again. He doesn’t know how he can join them.

 

___

 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad!”

“It’s bad. It’s really fucking bad, Rox.”

In fact, it’s his perfect vision of hell: stuck in a room full of fancy, rich folk for some posh party that serves its food on tiny, unsatisfactory biscuits while wearing an ill fitting penguin suit he has to borrow from his fake girlfriend’s former schoolmate.

It was an event the Mortons attended every year. Some fundraiser bit that rich people could use as a tax write-off. Roxy had asked him to accompany her. Amelia would be there, and she could allay all suspicions if she had Eggsy by her side. Then she had whipped out her big doe eyes that Eggsy could not resist because he’s apparently a sucker.

It’s not all bad. Roxy is absolutely gorgeous in her evening gown that Percival had designed for her (“He’s got a secret passion for couture, but you must never tell anyone lest he skin you alive and turn you into a gorgeous handbag,” she mentions to him) and he gets to witness the joyous way Amelia’s eyes light up when they are reunited. In fact, it’s nice to see how gone they are for one another. Eggsy feels like his trials and tribulations aren’t all for naught.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eggsy,” Amelia says when they are formally introduced, but her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes when she continues, “Roxy tells me what a good _friend_ you’ve been. I’m...glad there is someone for her, doing those things.”

“For both of us, darling,” Roxy says before Eggsy can reply. When he looks at her, she’s having one of those silent conversations with Amelia via their eyes.

“Right,” Eggsy says, earning himself twin semi-annoyed looks. “Feeling a bit peckish. Gonna go scare up some grub and leave you two to do...whatever it is you do.”

He takes his leave before he can be dragged into the middle of an argument, wandering about for a bit, but mostly sticking to the perimeter of the room where he can avoid running into anyone else and getting caught up in what’s sure to be an unpleasant conversation. He feels better with a wall at his back, ill at ease among all this bored elegance of which he has never been nor could ever be a part.

He ends up at the bar, which, unsurprisingly, only offers two shit beers and a selection of wines whose names he can’t pronounce.

“I recommend the Domaine Leflaive Burgundy, if you’re wondering,” says Mr Hart, who nearly scares Eggsy half out of his body.

“Mr Hart,” Eggsy breathes, trying to catch his breath. If he thought Mr Hart looked good in his daily bespoke suits, they had nothing on his formal coat tails, which somehow make him look even more impossibly debonair. “Uh….”

“Quite,” Mr Hart says with a little smile that nearly makes all the bones in Eggsy’s body melt. “Forgive me, Eggsy, but I didn’t think this was your sort of event.”

“Why, because I’m not posh?” Eggsy challenges.

“No, because it’s boring as hell,” Mr Hart says, smirking.

“Oh, thank bloody hell it’s not just me,” he sighs, relaxing.

“It’s not just you,” Mr Hart assures leaning against the bar, which just happens to put him in closer proximity to Eggsy. “Unfortunately the byproduct of donating one’s services for the charity auction necessitates having to put in an appearance at the event.”

“Yeah? What’s this auction for anyway?”

“Funding the surgical enhancements necessary to strengthen the chins of the upper class,” Mr Hart says with such a perfectly serious face, it takes Eggsy a moment to parse what he’s saying.

“What? No!”

“Perfectly true, I’m afraid. Generations of inbreeding have produced some rather unfortunate genetic defects among our set. But as you know, nature can be improved upon with a bit of money.”

Eggsy’s desperately trying to stifle his laughter, and finally a small grin full of white teeth cracks through Mr Hart’s deadpan expression. “You should be their spokesman.”

“Who says I’m not? After all, I’m not just a benefactor, I’m also a recipient.” Mr Hart strokes his chin in emphasis.

“And here I thought you were just naturally this handsome,” Eggsy sighs, realising too late what he’s gone and said to his boss. “Um. I mean. Not that I think….I didn’t mean—”

“No?” Mr Hart says quietly, leaning in perilously close, Eggsy can feel the heat of his breath even as he drowns in his heated gaze. “Because I was rather hoping you did.”

“Ah, there he is! My word, Eggsy, we thought you’d be glued to Roxy’s side! She’s something tonight, isn’t she?”

And just like that, they practically leap apart, turning to face the obliviously cheerful Mr and Mrs Morton.

“Ah, hello Mr Morton, Mrs Morton,” Eggsy says, hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “I was just having a word with me boss here, Mr—”

“Harry Hart, proprietor of the famed Kingsman tailors,” Mr Morton says, clearly needing no introduction as he moves forward to grip Mr Hart’s hand in an enthusiastic shake. “My little Roxy can’t say enough good things about it, and you of course!”

“I’m glad to hear it. Your daughter is a fantastic tailor and one couldn’t ask for a better employee,” Mr Hart replies graciously, matching Mr Morton’s enthusiasm with his own slightly more reserved if still heartfelt version.

“We must also thank you,” adds Mrs Morton, stepping up to have her hand taken up by Mr Hart as well, “for giving our Roxy this handsome young man here, if a bit indirectly. It’s a wonderful story isn’t it? Young love found in the workplace? They make such a lovely couple and Roxy couldn’t be happier.”

Eggsy knows the Mortons can’t tell, but the smile on Mr Hart’s face grows empty. Eggsy doesn’t know how he knows himself, but he can feel it as keenly as he does the own sinking sensation in his stomach. Something shuts down in Mr Hart’s face, like a door slamming closed.

“Well, I hadn’t any idea,” Mr Hart says, giving Eggsy an indecipherable look before glancing back at the Mortons once more. “But in hindsight, I could be kicking myself for not having seen it. How fantastic. But if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I’ve spotted a customer who would be very relieved to know we were able to source the Italian wool he requested so his suit will be finished in time for his daughter’s wedding.”

“Let us not be the ones to stand in the way of genius!” Mr Morton says, taking an exaggerated step off to the side. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Hart! I’ve always meant to stop by the shop sometime. Maybe I’ll have good reason to, if things keep going well between Eggsy and Roxy here. You’ll have to set aside some of that Italian wool for me.”

“Please do. You’ll naturally have access to Roxy’s employee discount.” Mr Hart nods to each of them, bearing the same facade of a polite smile to each. Eggsy wants to smash it apart with his fists. “Mr and Mrs Morton, Eggsy.”

“Mr Hart….” Eggsy tries, but his heart is stuck in his throat and it prevents any further words from escaping. Probably for the best, as he doesn’t know how to fix this without breaking things further.

The look Mr Hart gives Eggsy lasts a millisecond longer than it ought to have, and in it, a thousand things are said before he extricates himself from them and almost stalks off. Only someone who spends their time excessively studying Mr Hart’s gait would know he is moving a touch faster and with more tension than casual.

 

___

 

If Eggsy thought he would have the chance to talk to Mr Hart the next day, maybe somehow find an explanation that wouldn’t reveal Roxy’s own secret, he’s wrong. Mr Hart’s auctioning off of his services produced a nice indirect promotional effect with several event attendees suddenly remembering they ought to perform a sartorial update to their wardrobes. The shop is busier than ever and it stays that way all throughout day so that Eggsy barely has time to catch his breath, much less get a word in edgewise.

But worse than that, the few times their paths do cross on the shop floor, Mr Hart either outright ignores Eggsy or is snappish in a way that far exceeds the hasty abruptness the other tailors sometimes adopt when things are busy.

“Eggsy, these floors should never reach this point. Sweep them up immediately.”

Or, not a minute later, “Mr Randall has been waiting for nearly ten minutes now, why aren’t you asking him if he needs any refreshment? Is this not your job?”

Or, “Dressing Room Three is a positive disaster, why aren’t you on top of it?”

Or, at the end of the day when the door is closed for the last time, the locks are turned, and the staff can all breathe a sigh of relief, but Eggsy immediately gets to work on changing the front window displays to preview the upcoming season, “None of these styles are remotely passable. Are you colourblind? Who told you to do this?”

Finally, Eggsy has enough of Mr Hart’s churlishness. Having swallowed down his simmering anger all day without his usual outlets for reprieve, it builds and builds and finally erupts in a pique: he gives the mannequin he had been apparently poorly dressing a hard shove, striking it with enough force to start a domino effect for the other two, and soon all three mannequins have toppled over in a loud crash that echoes throughout the shop.

Mr Hart stills in his tracks, and soon Eggsy finds shrinking back from the full force of his fury blazing in his eyes.

“Mr Unwin,” Mr Hart says in an icy tone that could barely be construed above a whisper. “Please accompany me to my office. I believe we have matters to privately address.” And without waiting to see if Eggsy will even follow, he stalks up the stairs.

Eggsy does follow though, if at a far more hesitant pace. Each step down that narrow hall is filled with increasing dread. He knows he’s fucked up this time, letting his anger get the best of him.

The hall feels longer than usual, its strange decor leaping out and coming to the fore of his scattershot attention, butterflies and beetles, the clinical death surrounding him only serving to further drive up his anxiety.

The door to Mr Hart’s office has been left open in anticipation of his arrival. As soon as he steps through, Eggsy turns around to close it, not wanting anyone else to inadvertently overhear what is sure to be a thorough dressing down.

Mr Hart is standing just of the side of his desk with all the coiled tension of a tiger waiting to pounce. Eggsy finds himself leaning back against the closed door for support. “I’m sorry, Mr Hart. I know that was inexcusable. I just get so...I won’t do it again. Swear i—”

“Come here.”

The command cuts through his babbling. He feels paralysed for an instant, but then, helpless to comply as ever with that voice, his feet move him forward of their own volition. As he nears the desk, he sees a lone sheet of paper centred upon it in place of the usual pens.

“You will bend over that piece of paper on the desk and get your nose as close to it as you are able. Palms flat in front of you.”

He’s halfway to spreading out his hands on either side of the paper before the strangeness of the order finally sinks into his brain and he glances back at Mr Hart, half in question, half in...he’s not sure what’s showing on his face anymore.

Mr Hart just stares back and crisply enunciates each word. “Bend. Over. The. Desk.”

And so Eggsy does.

Nose so close to the paper he is nearly touching it, the text blurs before he blinks and focuses on it. Recognition of what he reads makes his heart skip a beat: the Kingsman Employee Guidelines. He admittedly glossed over them when filling out his papers, taking them more as suggestion than law. Eggsy can smell the vaguely citrus wood polish. He thinks the desk may be made of walnut. These details are easier to concentrate on instead of the fact that he feels terribly vulnerable in this position.

And yet, beneath that, is an unfurling tendril of anticipation. His stance now is so _suggestive_ , like the beginnings of his fantasies now come to life. He finds himself holding his breath.

Only to startle when Mr Hart leans over him, long, warm body pressed against Eggsy’s back, mouth close enough to his ear to cause him to shiver when Mr Hart says, “If, at any time, you want me to stop, then tell me to stop and I will do so immediately.”

Eggsy’s next breath catches in his throat.

“Do you understand? Tell me.”

“I...I understand,” Eggsy croaks, mind now wildly running through the possibilities. Stop? Stop what? And why would he want to?

“Read the paper aloud,” says Mr Hart.

At first, Eggsy frowns, but the entire situation is so far outside anything he’s ever known, he grasps on to the only thing familiar to him: following orders. “Kingsman employees never discuss conquests, private matters, or dealings. Their business is n—”

He soon gets his answers when a broad, hot palm sharply smacks his arse.

The unexpected sheer force behind it sends his hips careening into the edge of the desk and punches a breathless cry is from his lungs. Were it not for the way his hands are planted and braced upon the desk’s surface, he would probably have been sent right over it.

He turns his head to look over his shoulder back up at Mr Hart, shocked.

At first glance, Eggsy would have thought there is nothing in Mr Hart’s face, his mouth set in a neutral line, appearing for all the world like he hadn’t just spanked him like he were a child. But Eggsy has studied this face so intently, memorised it and dreamt about it, and he can see there’s a molten heat burning in Mr Hart’s eyes that seems to match the one emanating from his right arse cheek and out through his entire body.

“Keep reading,” Mr Hart softly instructs, holding his gaze.

Eggsy turns back to the paper, trying to get his bearings. “...their business is nobody else’s—” is punctuated with a cry as Mr Hart’s hand comes down again. The smack bites deeper into his flesh this time without the immediate rush of adrenaline to buffer the effect. The pain turns into liquid heat running through his veins.

“Kingsman employees don’t clash in p—uh!” Another smack. “ _Public._ With enemies—” _Smack!_ “Exes, or worse,” _Smack!_ “With out-of-fashion contrasts, colors or styles!” he gasps as the next series of assaults come in rapidfire succession, swaying his body back and forth like a pendulum.

He’s breathing hard now, sucking down every breath. His limbs feel like jelly. “A Kingsman employee is happy to serve,” he pants and is rewarded for it with Mr Hart’s skilled hand merciless upon him until all he can do is moan and cry, smearing his mouth against the paper, soaking it in his tears and spit, until his whole body feels insubstantial, reduced to a wave of feeling, becoming.

Even the pressure of Mr Hart collapsing atop him, feels like it is a part of him. The way the front of Mr Hart’s thighs press against Eggsy’s tender backside, his erection a hard blunt line against spine, his breath warm against his ear. His palms are splayed out on the desk beside Eggsy’s, achingly close enough to touch, so Eggsy does, reaching out to hook his pinky finger around Mr Hart’s thumb. Mr Hart entwines his thumb right back, the one solid point of connection he can feel.

“I’m happy to serve,” Eggsy sighs, closing his eyes.

The moment seems endless. Eggsy wishes it could last forever, bathed in the heat and muzzy feeling of lightness in the aftermath of pain, but eventually Mr Hart disengages his hand from Eggsy’s and peels himself from his back. A rush of cold air takes Mr Hart’s place, shocking him back into reality.

Slowly, Eggsy stands back up on unsteady legs, feeling shaky all over. He’s so hard. He can see the tent in his own cheap trousers, but he doesn’t feel ashamed. Mr Hart doesn’t look much better, like he's been shaken out of his pressed suit, clean lines all gone awry, an errant lock of hair slipped free of its firm style to curl against his forehead.

“I hope you’ve learned something valuable from this lesson,” Mr Hart says, but his voice is still half-wrecked and Eggsy thrills in it. “You may go now, Eggsy.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replies just to watch the barely repressed shiver ripple across Mr Hart’s shoulders and vows there and then to keep using it from then on.

 

___

 

Safe in the confines of Kingsman’s loo, Eggsy locks the door, stands with his back in front of the mirror and gingerly eases down his trousers and pants to reveal hot, flushed red skin. His arse is deep crimson in some spots, promising to turn into spectacular bruising later. He won’t be able to sit down or move, really, without being reminded of why or remembering the power behind Mr Hart’s hand, the press of his body against his.

Of knowing how much he ruins Mr Hart just as Mr Hart ruins him.

 

___

 

His next mistake is to reorder the ties all wrong. They are usually organised by colour, pattern, and then fabric, but Eggsy eschews this almost gleefully. He’s allowed to stretch out fully across the width of Mr Hart’s desk, where his cock can rub up some against the wooden edge. It’s not much, but even the teasing press feels electric when every nerve is his body is set alight.

Roxy’s parents invite him to their country house in Oxfordshire. It’s an awkward weekend of lying next to each other in bed with a wall of pillows between them and navigating around each other in and out of the loo. Pretending to be a couple for a weekend is far more taxing than a mere few hours, but the estate is absolutely gorgeous and Eggsy experiences his first horse riding lessons, which he enjoys immensely. Every bounce atop the horse sends a pointed reminder of his sessions with Mr Hart, but at least he's got a good excuse for walking funny.

Once, after replacing all the oxfords in the shoe display with brogues, Mr Hart binds Eggsy’s wrists with measuring tape in Dressing Room Three and makes him brace them against the mirror to watch himself: the way his hips wantonly rock back and forth with each smack like he’s being fucked, how his swollen lips part to shape his throaty groans, how his eyes go glassy, his cheeks flush, and a light sheen of sweat breaks out across his brow.

He accompanies Roxy to Mrs Morton’s birthday dinner in Soho, and Mrs Morton gushingly declares that the best birthday gift she could receive is seeing her daughter happy and settled with such a nice boy like him.

On evenings after work, Mr Hart has taken to requesting that Eggsy stay after close to assist him in his office, where he makes Eggsy crawl back and forth to fetch him things using only his teeth: a pen, fabric samples, order forms. It feels deliciously wrong, but Mr Hart tells him it’s a good way to see how thorough his cleaning of the floors really is. His palms and knees ache by the end of the night, but it’s all worth it for the way Mr Hart fondly strokes his hair when Eggsy lays his cheek against his thigh.

 

___

 

Both Eggsy and Roxy have to red-facedly request time off when the Mortons insist on having a mini-break to Brighton, which leads to no end of ribbing the others then make, but nothing is as worse as Mr Hart’s brief thunderous expression before it once again smooths out into something more gentlemanly, and the stony silence he maintains towards Eggsy thereafter. No inquiry to stay after store closing anymore. No more invitations to Mr Hart’s office to discuss his latest misstep (folding the handkerchiefs into swans, which he learned from watching YouTube videos). Nothing.

“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, I do,” Roxy tells him when they lazily lie next to each other on the beach at Brighton, sunglasses on, soaking up the sun and warm summer air.

He imagines they do look like quite the handsome couple, like this.

“Days like this it don’t seem too big a sacrifice.” Eggsy remains silent for a moment, then asks, “How’s Amelia taking it?”

“She’s not thrilled, but I think she understands,” Roxy admits. “Though she did accuse me of spending more time with my fake boyfriend than my real girlfriend.”

“Is she wrong?”

“It’s just so much easier when it’s like this,” Roxy admits. “I don’t have to lie and scheme every time I want to see her.”

Eggsy gives her a look that amounts to a silent _Really_.

“Well,” Roxy amends, looking guilty, “I meant, you’re a good mate, Eggs. It’s always been so easy between us right from the start, and my parents adore you. You make them so happy just by being yourself. Look how much they want to see you! I’ve never gotten this many invitations from them before you.”

The sad expression he catches from the corner of his eye when she doesn’t think he’s looking makes Eggsy hold his tongue. It’s not like he can tell her about Mr Hart or what they do, or how much the ongoing lie puts so much of a strain in whatever it is they have.

What Eggsy and Roxy have together is normal and acceptable, even pleasing. It is, admittedly, easy, for both of them. What they each have with others is not.

 

___

 

Dean and his mum get into another fight. It’s a banger, judging by the screaming that tears through the flat, accompanied by the breaking and smashing of objects being tossed at walls and probably at each other. He’s just grateful Daisy is being watched by his mum’s friend for the night, because his mum had originally planned a nice night out, which is out of the question now.

Dean’s drunk and his mum’s drunk, which is the worst combination. They don’t hold anything back like this and Eggsy opens and clenches his fists, just sitting in his room. He wants to go out there and draw Dean’s ire to himself, wants to accept his fists and kicks as punishment. He wants to ache for days because it takes energy to hurt, and it’s easier to keep his anger restrained when he’s exhausted.

The day he lets his anger loose is the day he thinks he may just kill Dean.

Out of desperation, he tries, well, hitting himself, open-palmed, of course. It’s awkward and he can’t get the right angle to really deliver the blows with a satisfactory amount of force, so he tries with the back of his mum’s big hair brush, turning it into a makeshift paddle, filling the air with hollow-sounding thwacks that get muffled by the continued shouting in the other room.

It’s still not the same. He just feels silly and frustrated.

He misses Mr Hart. He misses Mr Hart’s hands, which are forbidding and kind, much like his flinty eyes that gentle with fondness, like his mouth, which shape crisp consonants and soothing vowels. Eggsy likes all of Mr Hart’s hard edges, but he loves the soft ones even more.

But he’s lying to Mr Hart, and it’s hurting him in a way that does not bring reprieve.

 

___

 

Eggsy’s long since stopped fucking about with his work when no amount of error has made a whit of difference in Mr Hart’s attitude towards him (total avoidance), and it’s not really fair to the rest of the staff. Work becomes work again: tedious, monotonous, and vaguely humiliating. If the last few weeks hadn’t happened, he would have been fine with it, really, but now everything has changed. _He’s_ changed, having been shown something he hadn’t known he wanted, something that fulfills him in ways he hadn’t known was possible.

One day, a tall and handsome young man with dark eyes brown wavy hair enters the shop. One look at him, and Eggsy knows he’s rich as fuck and insufferable. The man’s gaze lands on Eggsy first and he doesn’t even bother coming closer to call out, “You there!”

Instead, it’s Eggsy who must stop his sweeping to come to him. “Hullo, sir. How can I help?”

And there, predictably, is the vague lip curl of disdain that happens whenever Eggsy opens his mouth to speak. “Where is Mr Hart?”

“Who’s asking?”

As if taking umbrage to daring to be questioned, the man gives him a withering stare. “Tell him that Charlie Hesketh is here to see him.”

The name isn’t familiar to Eggsy. Not that it would be. But something about Charlie sets his teeth on edge beyond the usual posh prick reflex he has. In lieu of outright chauncing Charlie a good one in his sneering mouth, Eggsy turns on his heel and practically marches to Mr Hart’s office, only to find Charlie following close on his heels.

Eggsy stops and turns to him. “What are you doing?”

“This saves us more time, doesn’t it?”

“He may not wanna see you.”

“He will,” Charlie replies smugly. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

When Eggsy knocks timidly on Mr Hart’s door and receives an assent to open it, it’s Charlie whose hand goes to the knob, shoving Eggsy out of the way and slipping in before Eggsy can think to move.

Charlie smirks at him, dismissing him with a, “You’ve done your job, pleb. Run along now,” before slamming the door in his face.

When Eggsy returns to the shop floor, he tracks down Roxy who had witnessed Charlie’s arrival with a concerned expression on her face and asks, “Who the fuck is Charlie Hesketh?”

“Charlie used to be Mr Hart’s apprentice,” Roxy confides. “But they had a falling out of some sort. It was all before my time, but I heard it was really awful. More importantly, Charlie is Mr King’s godson, and Mr King is a powerful man. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I heard Charlie threatened to ruin Mr Hart’s business by going to his godfather.”

“Looks like pricks like to stick together,” Eggsy mutters, glaring darkly at the stairs. There’s something angry churning in his gut that exceeds the usual irritation at being looked down upon. Something very specific to Charlie himself. Charlie, who worked directly under Mr Hart. Charlie, who isn’t terrible to look at, young and boyish with long eyelashes. Someone who might have appealed to Mr Hart, in fact.

His suspicions are confirmed when Charlie comes storming down the stairs, his meeting with Mr Hart having apparently not gone well at all, and glares at Eggsy like Eggsy personally insulted him. “So you’re the flavour du jour,” Charlie spits, getting in Eggsy’s personal space to loom over him and say quietly enough for only him to hear. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re absolutely nothing special, certainly not to Mr Hart.”

“Fuck you, bruv,” Eggsy says, giving him a smile that’s all teeth. “Sounds to me you’re just bitter you got thrown over for not meeting expectations. Few seconds of talking to you, I can see why.”

Charlie just laughs, grinning at Eggsy in a way that makes him feel uncomfortable. “Do you think you’re the first one Mr Hart has shared his disgusting desires with? Ask your fellow tailors. Ask them how many apprentices Mr Hart’s gone through like bloody bags of tea. Never a dull little shop boy though, I’ll give you that. But maybe you can’t hack it as an apprentice or maybe you’re just too thick to see what’s going on, and that’s why Mr Hart even keeps you around, but make no mistake, he’ll tire of you like he has everyone else. As I said before, you are nothing special.”

Charlie shoves him aside as he leaves, but Eggsy stumbles back without resistance, too unsettled by what Charlie’s said to be offended.

 

___

 

He hates Charlie. He hates him, he hates him, he hates him. It’s irrational, he knows, but his brief entrance in Eggsy’s life has upset everything. At least before, Eggsy could attribute Mr Hart’s distance to his own lie with Roxy. Now, all Eggsy can think is that Mr Hart had become bored with him and grabbed on to any convenient excuse available to bin him.

He can’t, he _won’t_ , go quietly though. He’s got to remind Mr Hart of his worth. He’s worth something.

It’s why Eggsy comes to work extra early, already starting about his morning tasks when Mr Hart walks through the door. Eggsy can tell Mr Hart is startled to see him there so early, but he at least offers Eggsy a curt nod before heading to his office.

He listens to Mr Hart’s steps round the corner, knows Mr Hart’s gait (just a touch impatient) and that his long legs give him a greater stride to eat up the distance. He estimates it’s about four seconds for Mr Hart to near his closed office door, pause to process what he’s seeing, and then turn back around. Eggsy is vindicated when he hears Mr Hart’s steps return and merely blinks up at him innocently when he appears before him.

“Was there something you needed, Mr Hart?” he asks.

“Mr Unwin,” Mr Hart says, visibly straining for calm. “Please come with me.” And that’s when Eggsy knows he’s won.

When they’re both safely behind Mr Hart’s closed door, Mr Hart rounds on him, holding the come-stained tie in his hand aloft like it’s a bloody murder weapon. “This sort of juvenile and outlandish behaviour will _not_ be tolerated, do you understand me?”

Eggsy tries to be repentant. He does. “What will you do to teach me a lesson, sir?”

Mr Hart’s nostrils flare; a flash of arousal flickers across his eyes that already has Eggsy hard. “Bend over the desk.”

Eggsy feels almost dizzy with the return of something so longed for. He knows he’s practically running for the desk, but each step feels heavy and slow, like he’s trying to trudge through thick mud. He bends over and lays his palms flat. The familiar feel and scent of the desk beneath him, edges biting in his hips, feels like coming home at the end of a long, hard day and falling into bed.

He’s waiting for the first strike. He even holds his breath. But it doesn’t come.

Eggsy bites his lip, but doesn’t dare move. Perhaps….perhaps Mr Hart is changing it up today.

“Unbutton your trousers and pull them down.”

The unexpected deviation in their usual routine causes Eggsy to hesitate, but as ever, he does as Mr Hart asks, slipping his trousers over the swell of his arse and letting them pool somewhere by his knees, one more layer of protection shed.

“Now your pants.”

And _that_ causes Eggsy’s heart to race. He can’t move.

“Eggsy,” Mr Hart says, “I’m not going to fuck you.”

And Eggsy doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He’s mostly just confused by the unchartered territory they’re now navigating, but he trusts Mr Hart to never steer him wrong. It’s that trust that allows him to thumb the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and slide them down past his thighs, exposing his bare arse to the cool air and up for Mr Hart’s gaze.

He wonders what it will be like to be spanked with no layers of fabrics between them, how much sharper the blows will sting. It’s thrilling. He almost wiggles his hips in anticipation.

But the blow never comes. It’s practically dead quiet. He’s about to turn around and ask what Mr Hart’s waiting for, but then he hears Mr Hart move, feels the heat of him so close against his bare skin that he half wonders if Mr Hart had lied, that he really will press the blunt head of his cock against Eggsy’s hole and press in.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Mr Hart repeats, as if reading his mind. “But don’t move.”

There’s the sound of a belt clinking and fabric moving.

There’s Mr Hart’s heavy breathing.

Eggsy half expects to feel hands upon him before he hears it next, the unmistakable sound of a hand stroking slick flesh.

With a start, Eggsy realises what Mr Hart’s doing behind him and it freezes him up, listening to the obscene sound of him wanking in the overwhelming quiet and the bitten off groans that seem to leak from Mr Hart’s mouth.

The rhythmic sounds begin to increase, and Eggsy can’t help imagining it behind him, what Mr Hart’s cock looks like, what it would feel like, in his mouth, in his arse. He wants to reach down to touch himself too, thinks he could probably bring himself off in just a few short strokes given how fucking hard he is, but then Mr Hart cries out sharply and the sounds stop, and Eggsy suddenly feels hot come spurting across his arse and lower back.

It feels...Eggsy doesn’t know. He can only stare at the whorls in the wood of the desk as he hears the faint sounds of Mr Hart sighing and putting himself back together even while his come is growing tacky on Eggsy’s skin.

“Get dressed,” Mr Hart says.

Eggsy slowly straightens, reaching down to pull both his trousers and pants up in one go. He meets the gaze of Mr Hart’s dead stuffed dog that’s set upon a shelf behind Mr Hart’s chair while he buttons his trousers over his still hard cock.

“It’s still very early,” Mr Hart says casually, like his come isn’t soaking into Eggsy’s clothes. “You should run out for coffee and breakfast. Perhaps fetch something for the others when they get in. Charge it to Kingsman’s corporate card. Run along.”

The echo of Charlie’s earlier words nearly causes him to flinch, but he numbly accepts the black credit card he’s handed, chancing a questioning look at Mr Hart’s face and only finding it as blank as ever.

“Mr Hart, sir….”

“Thank you, Mr Unwin, that will be all.”

 

___

 

But when Eggsy leaves Mr Hart’s office, he heads straight to the toilets instead, locking himself in one of the stalls before freeing his painfully hard cock and tossing off with a speed he hasn’t known since prison, when he had to furtively jerk off quickly in the rare snatches of time he got alone.

When he comes, it’s with a loud, unrestrained cry, and he doesn’t give a fuck if anyone else hears him.

 

___

 

The little cafe near Kingsman is as good as befits the neighbourhood’s caliber. Eggsy orders himself a breakfast tea and what’s pretty much the best chocolate scone in London and sits at a little table by the window to people watch. It’s all very quaint and lovely while Eggsy just relishes the way Mr Hart’s drying come is starting to itch.

The vaguely soiled feeling, especially in such a cheerfully pristine and sophisticated little venue, makes him smile like he’s got a delightful secret. It’s probably a dosy one. He’s tried so hard to fit in for so long, but this thing he and Mr Hart do, it’s like permission for Eggsy to simply be himself, no matter how fucked up that person is.

Fuck Charlie and his judgment, his proper attire and his ugly words. Mr Hart and him may be wolves in sheep’s clothing, but at least they have each other.

 

___

 

He returns to the shop bearing a tray of hot styrofoam cups and a box of breakfast pastries, setting them on the back table for the others when they arrive and picking out the prettiest looking one to personally bring to Mr Hart along with one of the teas.

For once, he rather enjoys the long walk down the hall to Mr Hart’s office, because each step makes him feel lighter than air. But it’s only when he draws closer that he notices the door is already cracked open.

Eggsy slowly pushes the door open wider to find Mr Hart slumped in office chair, an empty glass sitting on the desk bearing the last dregs of scotch. Eggsy gets the feeling it wasn't his first one today. Mr Hart doesn’t even look up when Eggsy sets the tea and scone down beside it.

“It’s a bit early, innit?” Eggsy finally asks just to break the silence.

“Would you care for one as well?” Mr Hart dully asks.

“Nah, thanks,” Eggsy says slowly, rounding the desk. “Mr Hart, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” says Mr Hart, finally looking up at Eggsy. “So what is it you wanted to see me about, Mr Unwin?”

“Uh...I brought you breakfast? Like you asked?”

But Mr Hart continues to stare at him like he hasn’t spoken at all. “You’re Lee Unwin’s son. What is it you wanted to see me about?”

And oh. _Oh_.

Eggsy bites the inside of his lip, wondering what game this is now but willing to play along all the same. “I’ve just gotten out of prison.”

“Ah.”

“It wasn’t for anything bad. Just nicked a car from my step-dad’s gang. They deserved it though.”

“I see.”

“But that’s all behind me,” Eggsy says, smiling softly despite himself. “I just want...something else. Something better. A job. I need a job.”

Mr Hart doesn’t say anything in response, and Eggsy realises he must have said something more. It takes him a long moment to recall. “I’m not really talented enough to be a tailor. But I can clean and fold and organise. Bring people tea and clean out dressing rooms and sweep. I just need a job. My mum said you owed us a favour.”

Like before, Mr Hart stares at him and says nothing. Like before, Eggsy feels like he’s being pulled apart and clinically examined. It’s just as unnerving.

“I’m afraid we don’t have that sort of work available here, Mr Unwin,” Mr Hart finally says. “We already employ an overnight custodial staff and it’s adequate enough for our needs.”

The smile slips off his face. “What?”

But Mr Hart only continues, “During the day, our tailors take care of the daily ins and outs of maintaining appearances. They loathe it but I think a bit of discipline does us all some good.”

“What are you doing?”

“So as things stand, I’m afraid there’s no place for you here, Mr Unwin, but I can refer you to other business establishments and guarantee you’ll have a place there,” says Mr Hart, his tone carrying a damning note of finality.

Eggsy blinks, then blinks again. His eyes are stinging, he realises. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying, Eggsy, that your services are no longer required and you are no longer employed here as of this moment. You’re fired.”

“ _You’re_ fired!” Eggsy shoots back, which, alright, isn’t the wittiest of comebacks, but it’s getting so hard to think. “Please don’t do this. What we have is—”

“What we _had_ was wrong,” Mr Hart says emphatically. “I’m wrong. I’m...there’s something wrong with me, Eggsy. I keep doing this and I can’t stop. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.”

“It’s not. It’s not, I swear. It’s….” But he doesn’t know. He’s never really known. He just knows he was happy with it. He was happy.

Daringly, Eggsy reaches out and lightly grazes Mr Hart’s shoulder, and when Mr Hart doesn’t react, lets his palm rest there, feeling the heat and hard muscle beneath his shirt. For all they’ve done, it’s only the second time he’s ever really gotten to touch Mr Hart, and now he does so with relish, letting his his hand slide up to Mr Hart’s neck and through his hair, dragging it out of its careful style. “Please, I’d just like the chance.”

His heart skips a beat when Mr Hart leans into it, and Eggsy begins to think everything will be alright when Mr Hart says, “I will, of course, provide a good reference for you, and a list of new establishments who would welcome the help.”

Eggsy draws his hand back as if it’s been burned. Mr Hart won’t look at him, no matter how hard Eggsy silently wills him to. He’s shut him completely out.

Eventually, Eggsy turns and leaves, because he doesn’t know what more he can do. He hardly remembers walking back down the hall and stairs, barely acknowledging Roxy when she calls out to him. He just keeps walking and walking, but no matter how far he walks, he still has to carry the wreckage that is his heart with him.

 

___

 

Eggsy doesn’t do anything stupid, nor does he try to hurt himself. In spite of everything, Mr Hart is right: he’s beyond those things now. He thought he’d been moving on to something better, of course, but now he’s a bit stuck.

Mr Hart is at least a man of his word: he recommends Eggsy to an equally renowned little hat shop called Lock & Co. and Eggsy’s hired on the spot. Moreover, when Eggsy receives his severance pay, it’s for far more than he’s owed.

At first he’s tempted to simply throw the cheque into the Thames in anger, but practicality stops him. It’s money that can go to Daisy, if anything else.

 

___

 

“This is weird, Rox,” Eggsy tells her when he steps into her flat and sees the nicely laid out place settings on the table and the makings of a wonderfully home cooked meal, but more alarmingly, the bloody candles.

“Oh, just let me have a little fun,” Roxy tells him before smiling at him nervously. “After all, I always imagined there’d at least be a touch of the romantic when I did this.”

“Did what?” Eggsy asks warily

“Uh, to see if you perhaps...wanted to marry me?” Roxy asks, practically cringing as she says the words.

“ _Marry_?” Eggsy yelps. “Have you gone mad?”

“Just hear me out!” Roxy says, holding out her hands as if she were trying to calm a nervous horse. “I know we both don’t love each other in that way. But not all marriages are made with that sort of love. If anything, the longest lasting marriages are ones built on mutual respect and partnership. Think of what we can give each other! I can get you out of your step-father’s awful clutches. We can even start a trust fund for your sister. And you...you make my parents so happy. You make my parents happy with _me_. We get married and we finally settle all their fears and they’ll leave us in peace, right?”

“Is that what you really want, Rox?” Eggsy asks. “To be married to someone you don’t really love just to get your parents off your back?”

“You’ve become my best mate, Eggs. And we’re good together in just about every other way. Would it really be so bad?”

The thing is, it wouldn’t. No, it wouldn’t be the life he had imagined for himself. It wouldn’t be filled with passionate love or intimacy. But there would be laughter and friendship and companionship. From a purely monetary standpoint, he’d be in much better circumstances, and perhaps he’d even be able to help his mum out as well. Unwins maybe weren’t lucky in love, but they could at least do a little better for themselves.

Besides, what else does Eggsy have now?

 

___

 

He’s got to move on. He has in all other aspects of his life, so why not this?

Mr Hart had awoken a hunger in him, a desire that couldn’t be fulfilled by many, not even most. Eggsy starts browsing a few racier websites, gets dead frightened off most of them, but some seem alright.

He meets people. People like him.

He meets a man named Richmond Valentine who has a prominent lisp and asks him to squirt real human blood on him (“It’s my own!” he tells Eggsy cheerfully, “Been saving it up!”), and when Eggsy does, he has such a visceral reaction that he starts sicking up all over himself, much to Eggsy’s horror.

He meets a small woman with dark eyes and hair and alarmingly sharp prosthetic blades instead of feet who insists he address her only as Madame Gazelle. She yanks Eggsy around by his hair and makes him lick her blades. Eggsy has never employed his safeword so fast.

There’s Tilde, the stunning blonde woman from Sweden who immediately asks once they settle down for coffee, “We will do you in the asshole in the toilet, ja?”

There’s Hugo, who is gentle and sweet, and had been hoping Eggsy would dom _him_.

It doesn’t matter. None of them are Mr Hart. None of them could ever hope to be. He’s stuck in Eggsy’s blood like a virus and Eggsy doesn’t know if he’ll ever be cured.

 

___

 

They don’t get their tuxedos from Kingsman. Once Mr Morton hears of Eggsy’s sacking (in heavily edited terms), he curses Mr Hart and the entire shop, vowing to never patronise it in solidarity to his soon-to-be son-in-law. It’s a very kind if misguided gesture, but Eggsy can’t help but feel warmed by the showing anyway.

He’s been putting off really thinking about his upcoming nuptials, letting Mrs Morton drive through all the preparations and planning like a runaway freight train, until one day he wakes up with dread in his stomach and realises he’s getting bloody married in just a few hours. Fucking hell.

For both their sakes, Eggsy and Roxy requested a small wedding at her parents’ home and stubbornly kept to that decision no matter how much Mrs Morton tried to convince them otherwise. The whole thing still feels like a bit of a sham. Best to have as few people witness it as possible.

Minutes before the whole charade is about to kick off, Eggsy finds himself in one of the shaded alcoves of the garden, trying to calm his nerves. He’s sweating a bit in his suit from the unusual humidity, but he still can’t help admiring it. It fits him like a glove. Maybe it’s not up to Kingsman’s standards, but it’s still the nicest thing Eggsy has ever owned, a gift from Mr Morton, what is surely to be the first of many.

Fuck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck am I doing?” he mutters to himself.

As if in answer, he hears a sob.

Frowning, Eggsy tries to find the source of the crying, parting the thick nearby foliage to discover none other than Amelia sitting on the ground, uncaring of whether or not the mud is staining her dress. Her makeup’s a lost cause already given the thick tears she’s been shedding in wet black streaks down her cheeks.

“Amelia, are you alright?” he asks, even though he pretty much knows she isn’t. The least he can do is offer her his handkerchief, which she accepts.

“No, Eggsy, I am not alright,” Amelia sighs, trying to clean up her face. “Obviously. Would you be if you were in this situation?”

“I...well….”

“I’m letting the love of my life get married to another man. I’m just sitting back and doing _nothing_ , which is all I’ve ever done this whole time. God, what is wrong with me, Eggsy? Why is Roxy so ashamed of me?” Amelia implores, gazing up at him desperately.

“She…” Eggsy swallows. “She shouldn’t be. You’re a lovely girl, Amelia, and no one who loves you should be ashamed of you. No one. If you want Rox, then...then tell her. Fight for her. Show her what it’s like to not be ashamed. ‘Cos I don’t think she knows of any other way, you get me?”

The sadness clears from Amelia’s red, teary eyes, replaced by sheer determination. She sniffs one last time and stands up, shoulders set. “You’re right. I’ve got to tell her. I don’t want her marrying you—no offence, Eggsy.”

“None taken.”

“Thank you, Eggsy.”

“Someone around here should be happy. I’m just glad it will be you two,” Eggsy says, and then gets the stuffing squeezed out of him when Amelia pulls him into a hard embrace, nearly shoving him into the bushes when she releases him and marches off to find her bride.

As for the groom, well, Eggsy’s got to take his own words to heart, hasn’t he? He may be impulsive and reckless and more than a bit fucked up, but he can’t sit back and let the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him slip through his fingers. Not while there’s still hope that Mr Hart may actually care for him beneath all his shame and self-disgust. Not without a fight.

He barely remembers the long trip to Kingsman. The black taxi gets caught up in gridlock traffic for so long that Eggsy simply opts to run the rest of the way, tuxedo and all. He’s practically drenched by the time he bursts through the shop and tears through confused customers and tailors alike, heading for the stairs, down that blasted hall, and throwing open Mr Hart’s office door without so much as a knock.

Mr Hart, for his part, makes complete shock look graceful, only looking up to regard Eggsy with raised brows, glass of scotch halfway lifted to his mouth. “Eggsy, you can’t be here.”

“I love you,” Eggsy tells him while trying to catch his breath. It’s admittedly not the strong and stirring declaration of intent he’d been imagining in his head. “I loved what we have. I just...I just wanted you to know that.”

“Did you…” Mr Hart frowns, eyeing Eggsy’s suit. “Where did you come from?”

“From my wedding,” Eggsy says. “Sort of ditched my bride at the altar though. Turns out, I really didn’t want to marry someone I didn’t love, even though it would have been easier in just about every way. I don’t want easy. I want you.”

"We can't do this," Mr Hart protests.

"Why not?" Eggsy challenges.

Mr Hart slowly stands, and Eggsy doesn’t dare look away. “People will talk. They already do. They’ll think….”

“I don’t care,” Eggsy says. “Let them.”

Mr Hart stares at him for a long, long time, as if trying to find any sort of chink in his armour, but Eggsy is sure. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Sit here,” Mr Hart instructs, pulling out his office chair. Eggsy can barely dampen his grin as he swiftly moves around the desk to do just that. “Lay your hands down flat upon the desk. Stay like that. Don’t move until I return. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Eggsy tells him, gazing at him meaningfully.

Mr Hart just presses his lips together thoughtfully. He almost says something else, Eggsy can tell, but instead opts to turn around, gather his coat, and leave the room entirely.

Eggsy doesn’t mind. He’s been given an order and he’ll obey it.

 

___

 

At first, Eggsy thinks Mr Hart simply went to the loo. Then he starts to think Mr Hart went out for tea, perhaps a bite to eat.

As the seconds turn into minutes turn into hours, he starts to wonder if Mr Hart had simply gone home for the day.

It doesn’t matter. He’s to wait. He’s to wait in his damp, wrinkled and now somewhat uncomfortable suit. His mouth’s a bit dry and a headache has settled in his temples. He’s getting a bit hungry. His bladder is _full_.

But he can’t move. Not for anything. Not for the phone that suddenly rings on the table across the room that Eggsy can’t answer. Not for the way he’s got to soil his trousers, the leather chair, and the nice Persian rug when he can’t hold it in anymore. Not for the exhaustion that begins to pull at his eyes.

Not for Mr Morton, suddenly sat in the chair across from him. Eggsy’s so weary, he hadn’t realised the other man had come in. “I don’t understand, son,” Mr Morton tells him. “I was supposed to be have my father-daughter dance. I had a fantastic speech prepared. Now Roxy’s gone off with some woman and you’re...sitting here like this? Why?”

“It’s a long story,” Eggsy croaks. “But know that your daughter loves you and only wanted to make you happy. She was afraid of what you’d think of her. Please don’t prove her right.”

“Of course we still love our daughter!” Mr Morton bristles. “I don’t appreciate the lying, but that was never in question!”

“Good,” Eggsy smiles. “That’s good. Er, how did you know I was here?”

"That bloody man himself phoned, saying we needed to come down and talk some sense into you.

"It's a test," Eggsy insists, even if it's mostly to convince himself. "He's testing me."

Every time he closes his eyes he startles awake when he feels his head dropping to the desk. It’s evening now and someone’s gone and turned on a dim lamp in the room while Eggsy was asleep, for which he’s grateful. Mr Hart still isn’t back.

“I’m a bit pissed at the whole getting jilted at the altar part,” Roxy says to him the next time he opens his eyes. “Not exactly a pleasant experience in front of our family’s nearest and dearest, but I suppose I deserved it. I was being a right cock, wasn’t I?”

“Amelia didn’t deserve that.”

“No. No she didn’t. The good news is that she’s allowing me to spend the rest of my life making it up to her.”

“I’m so happy for you, Rox,” Eggsy says, meaning it.

“But what about you, Eggs? What is this? Is this making you happy? Being with Mr Hart?” Roxy asks, voicing the question incredulously as she glances pointedly at Mr Pickle behind Eggsy. “How had I never seen it before? I would never have asked you to do what you did for me had I known.”

“I love him,” Eggsy says simply. “He just doesn’t love himself.”

 

___

 

He feels like the wilting flowers in his boutineer, cheek pressed against the hard desk between his hands, back and hips aching from sitting for so long.

Tired.

Thirsty.

Mr Hart still hasn’t returned, and Eggsy would die here, waiting.

 

___

 

At some point, they all come and go, faces swimming blurrily in and out of focus between lapses of awareness.

Charlie: “I could tell you many stories of our time together, Eggy. I can’t believe I let him do those things to me. He perverted me and made me like them. Just look what he’s done to you now. He does have a rather large prick though. That was a side benefit.”

Ryan: “Look, mate. I’m gonna be real with you for a mo. Is this bloke paying you for this kinky sex shit? I know things have been hard, but you don’t gotta do _this_ , cuz.”

Jamal: “I’ve been reading some books on the subject, Eggs. Can’t say I understand the appeal, but you know we got your back, yeah? If this bloke _hurts_ you in any way...well...er, I guess that’s kinda the point, innit? Hm.”

Amelia: "They say the children of abusive parents tend to seek out similar partners. You helped me, Eggsy, so now let me help you. You don't have to accept this. Stand up for yourself the way you taught me to."

Merlin: "I've known Harry for a very long time, Eggsy. He loves very rarely, but when he does, it can be an overwhelming thing. Let's just say this is the last stop before there's no turning back. Are you really ready for that sort of commitment? Because if you aren't and you break Harry's heart, I will sign you up to every porn site on the internet. You won't be able to turn on your mobile without fending off a dozen malware ads."

Dean: “You’re a disgusting piece of filth. Always knew you was a bloody bender. How many cocks you sucked in prison, Mugsy? Coulda mentioned it after. There’s money to be made in that sort of work, you dumb shit.”

His mum: “You know I still love you, right? I know I ain’t been the best mum in the world, but I just want you to know that I don’t think what you’re doing is wrong. Heavens know we all go a bit nutty for love, us Unwins. You do what you gotta do, babe. I support you.”

“Thanks, Mum,” he tells her, wishing, for the first time, he could raise his hands from the desk to hug her.

 

___

 

 

“Eggsy.”

The voice, smooth and rich and so-oft heard in his dreams that Eggsy thinks he’s still in one, is soon followed up with a touch to his head. It feels nice.

“Eggsy,” the voice comes again. “Drink.”

A plastic straw is pushed between his dry, chapped lips, and Eggsy instinctively sucks, resulting in something wonderfully cold and sweet wetting his mouth. He immediately tries to seek out more.

That’s when two surprisingly strong arms come up around him and lift him out of the chair. Eggsy curls against Mr Hart’s chest, pressing his nose into Mr Hart’s neck to breathe in the very faint traces of his cologne, sighing.

He barely notices Mr Hart moving, carrying him in his arms, out of the office, through the hall, down the stairs and across the shop past a gawking party of witnesses that includes their friends and employees and family.

He barely remembers the taxi ride back to...somewhere. Mr Hart’s home, he is soon to learn, filled with all sorts of strange wonders just like him. Mr Hart peels him out of his soiled tuxedo and settles him into a hot, steaming bath. He personally washes Eggsy’s hair and then his whole body, and all Eggsy has to do is lie back and enjoy the pampering.

When he’s clean, Mr Hart scoops Eggsy from the clawfoot tub and wraps him in a large, fluffy towel to dry him off and then lays Eggsy across his big, soft bed that smells just like him.

Eggsy can’t stop smiling in contentment when Mr Hart blankets him with his body and noses at his skin, drawing his lips across all of his body’s scars in exploration and worship. He’s naked too, and all the places where their bare skin meets feels like fire.

“Where did you go to university?” Eggsy sighs, then shivers when Mr Hart—Harry—laves at his nipple with his tongue. “Where were you born?”

“Who was your first girlfriend? Boyfriend?” he asks when Harry kisses down the ladder of his ribs to the crevice of his hip.

“What’s your middle name? Did you have any other pets besides the one?” he asks when Harry swallows down his cock, and for a time, Eggsy can’t ask any more questions.

He moans when Harry pulls off him to crawl back up and capture his lips in a heated kiss. “What did you want to really be when you was young?” he manages to gasp when they have to reluctantly part for air.

Harry opens his eyes and they are filled with so much love and adoration that Eggsy forgets to breathe. “I wanted to be a knight,” he shyly confesses.

And Eggsy just laughs softly, drawing him back down into another kiss.


End file.
